


Ivre sur toi

by Doctors_in_jumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:14:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctors_in_jumpers/pseuds/Doctors_in_jumpers
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson both come from abusive families, and when they meet at an orphanage, sparks fly.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azraella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azraella/gifts).



> Strong language warning. I definitely do not believe it is right to abuse anything or throw someone out because of their sexual preference.

Prologue…  
“I will not have a faggot in this house!” The words stung worse than lemon juice to a cut and tears were threatening to spill out of Sherlock’s eyes as he stood taller and faced his father. He said nothing, in fear of making his current situation worse.

“So you don’t deny it?” Mr. Holmes took a step closer to his son who, in turn, fought back the urge to step back. The next word growled by the older man took Sherlock completely by surprise. “Out.”  
“W-What?”  
“You heard me. Get out.” He raised his hand. “Now.” Sherlock hesitated, which was his biggest mistake. The menacing hand came down and struck him hard on his right cheek.

Pain burst through his head, and he was forced to step back to take the impact. His head was ringing, but he still held back his tears. His dad raised his hand again, but he brought it down to an empty space, as his son was already at the door of their small flat pulling on his shoes. Within the minute, the door was slammed shut, and the young genius was gone.

Sherlock could already feel his face swelling into a handprint as he ran across the street. He didn’t stop running until there was a few streets of difference in between him and the flat. Only then did he realize that he actually had nowhere to go. He looked at the street he was on. He was only about a block away from the British Museum, but at this hour they wouldn’t let him in. He decided on Regent’s Park and headed in the direction of the Gardens. He shivered and wished he had brought his coat with him, after all, it was not smart to go out during winter in a t-shirt.

Once he arrived at the famous park, he found an unoccupied bench and sat down with his head in his hands. The shock of what had happened finally begun to wear off. His shoulders sagged, and he felt his tears finally streaming down his face. For half an hour he sat there, shivering, his face in his hands, letting gravity pull his tears downwards.

When he was finally all cried out, Sherlock curled up on his side and let exhaustion wash over him. 

He had only been asleep for a few minutes when a bright light shone through his eyelids and he heard a man’s rough voice.  
“How old do you reckon he is?” Sherlock opened his eyes, and the bright light from a torch shot a jolt of pain ringing through his head. Whoever was holding it quickly pointed it towards the ground, leaving Sherlock blinking spots from his eyes. When he could finally see again, he sat up and evaluated the people in front of him.

There was a man with slightly greying hair. Clearly a detective, his fiancée was obviously cheating on him. In his late thirties, not a threat.

Next to him stood a woman. She was considerably younger, and was cleary starting to catch feelings for a colleague, but not the one with her. Also not a threat.

“Hey, sorry to bother you kid, but we’re checking to make sure no one is sleeping outside tonight.” Sherlock looked around himself and realized that the occupants of the other benches were either gone, or in the process of leaving. The woman had a slightly nasally voice.  
“Do you have anywhere you can go?” Sherlock shook his head. “Do you have any relations we can contact?” Sherlock shook his head again. She frowned slightly. “And how old are you?”  
“Fourteen.” His voice broke slightly with the unuse. She sighed and glanced at the man. “Could you wait here for a moment?” Sherlock nodded, and the they walked out of earshot.

Sherlock couldn’t restrain his curiosity and glanced in the direction of the two officers. She looked agitated, worried maybe. He clearly held authority over her and was trying to calm her down. It worked and they came back to the bench.

“We’re with New Scotland Yard. I’m Greg and this is Sally.” Greg gestured to himself and then Sally. “Since you have nowhere to go and it’s bloody cold out here, do you want to come with us? We’ll take you somewhere where you’ll be looked after.” Sherlock contemplated running away, but Greg was right, it was freezing out. He nodded.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short. I've got finals, so I don't have too much time.

John Watson sat in a small drafty office. Harry was there too, but he felt alone. Everything was hurting and he hadn’t slept restfully in a while. They sat in the silence, neither of them wanting to break it. Until the door opened and a man walked in. He appeared to be starting to put on a bit of weight, and he kept pushing his rectangular glasses up his face. He took a seat opposite them and started typing on the computer. The tapping of the keys was the only sound in the room, and then he cleared his throat.  
“Hello. I’m Mike Stamford, your social worker. We’re going to try and be as fast as we can so I can get you kids somewhere, so I need you to answer as truthfully as possible. Alright?” John and Harry nodded. “First, can you tell your names and ages?”  
He looked pointedly at John who swallowed hard. “Uh, I’m John and I’m sixteen.” Mike registered this information into the computer and then gestured for Harry to go.  
“I’m Harriet and I’m thirteen.” She spoke with feigned confidence. Mike kept typing.  
He paused and looked up at the siblings again. “Ok, now correct me if I’m wrong. Your mother died five years ago?” John nodded. “Alright, and both of you were living with your father?” John nodded again. “Alright, can each of you, in turn, tell me about him?” They both nodded. “John, once you’re the oldest, you can start.”  
All of a sudden something cold gripped his heart and the air seemed to disappear from the room, but he pushed the feeling down and spoke. “He was a good dad while mom was around. And then, then she died and he, uh he-” Harry interrupted him with he typical brashness.  
“He started drinking. And he also started beating John. Come on John, show him.” She tugged at his arm. He faced a pleading look from Harry, and intense curiosity from Mike, and soon enough, he gave in. He tried not to wince as he took off his shirt and showed Mike his back. There were plenty of old scars, and a few fresh welts, but the worst one was one his left shoulder. His dad had thrown the neck of a broken beer bottle at him, and he now suffered from a slight tremor in his hand. Mike took it all in and began typing at his computer with seemingly new energy. John quickly put his shirt back on and waited for Mike to speak again.  
“I think we’re all done here. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take you two somewhere you’ll be safe ok?” John must’ve looked uncertain because Mike immediately elaborated. “You’ll have new clothes, good food and a warm bed.” John needed no more convincing. At home, he never had warm food, or new clothes, and he needed a good sleep. He got up and dragged Harry with him, following Mike Stamford.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry this chapter is so short, I don't have much time for writing, and once the story actually starts, the chapters should be longer.

Mike’s car was much like his office, small, and slightly unorganized. John and Harry sat in the back seat, not knowing if they should say anything. After only about five minutes of silence, Mike turned on the news. BBC. Something about suicides and Scotland Yard. John let it become back round noise, but then he heard a name that caught his interest.

“The head of New Scotland Yard’s homicide division, Gregory Lestrade himself, is working on determining if these apparent suicides aren’t actually murder…” The name Lestrade sounded familiar. Then he remembered. Only last night a grey haired man had appeared at their doorstep, bearing the horrible news of their father’s death. He had called himself by that name, but a lot had happened between then and now, and John had forgotten. But wait, if he was a homicide detective, why was he the one to tell them? Unless… Of course. Mr. Watson was an alcoholic and a terrible man when he was sober anyways. He probably had plenty of enemies, and one of them must’ve taken action. John couldn’t say he was surprised.

When John lost his train of thought and rejoined the rest of the world, the radio had been shut off, and Mike and Harry were now happily conversing.  
“The police said the poison was self administered though.” Harry rolled her eyes at Mike’s comment.  
“Yeah, but maybe someone forced them to take it? From what I’ve heard, the police are hardly ever right.” They were debating if the suicides were actually murder.  
“Never doubt the police, they know what they’re doing.” Mike argued back.  
“If you say so.” The conversation ended just in time, because they pulled up to a rather large building. Across the street was a small sandwich place and a coat shop.  
“Alright, here we are.” Mile stepped out of the car. John and Harry followed. They got what little belongings they had brought with them and walked up to the door.

It was painted black with a huge brass knocker right below numbers that read 221B.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Beta (who didn't want me to give them credit), went on a trip and has no wifi, so if anyone would like to Beta this fic, e-mail me at sherlockfanfictionacc@gmail.com. Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy this chapter.

Mike, Harry, and John all stood outside of 221B Baker Street taking in every detail of the building. Even though it looked like an ordinary flat block, it was huge. While all the surrounding buildings were skinny, this one was rather wide for London architecture. The windows had little french balconies, and there were dainty potted plants that added a natural touch. Before the trio could even reach the door, it swung open to reveal an elderly lady. She reminded John of his own grandma. Soft kitten heels, fluffy hair, and vintage dresses.

 

“Good morning Mike.” She shook his hand and then let here eyes fall onto the kids. “Oh! You must be John.” she extended her hand to John, and he shook it noticing how soft her hands were. “And you’re Harry, right?” She offered her hand to Harry, who shook it enthusiastically. Mike opened his mouth, but Mrs Hudson kept talking. “My name’s Mrs Hudson. Come in dears, you must be freezing.” The group followed her into a narrow hallway. There were stairs that led upwards straight ahead, and to the right was a door that read “Kitchen” and there were delicious smells coming from underneath the wooden barrier. 

 

“Mrs Hudson, do you want to explain to the kids what this place is?” Mike looked at her pointedly.

The old woman clapped her hands. “Ah yes. In case you two haven’t figured it out yet, I run a small orphanage. I mainly take in teenagers, and Harry’s barely cutting it. Right now I have three other children with me. Your rooms are upstairs. John’s is the last door on the right, and Harry yours is the first door on the left.” They followed her up the 17 stairs to a little sitting room. There was a fairly new leather couch with a union jack pillow, an easy chair, an ordinary reddish chair, and a small table with three chairs surrounding it. One for each child. Soon there would be five.

 

John took his duffel bag down the hall and found the last door on the right. He pushed it open and a terrible stench hit him. He backed up, gagging. He took a deep breath and opened the door again. Inside was an absolute mess. There was a single bed that looked like it had never been slept in, for there were textbooks and petri dishes littering the sheets. Underneath the window there was a small couch piled up with blankets. On the last wall there was a desk with a boy hunched over what looked like a microscope. 

 

The lights were off and the blinds drawn, but from what John could see the boy was incredibly thin and had an unruly mop of curly hair. He didn’t notice John close the door. John cleared his throat.

“Uh, hi.” The boy jumped slightly.

“Oh, um, hey” John turned the light on and noticed the shocking colour of his eyes. They were an amazing blue green colour. 

John walked over to the boy with his hand outstretched.

“My name’s John.”

The boy took his hand and shook it. “The name’s Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my beta em0rion.

The new boy’s hand was slightly clammy, but his warm smile made up for it. He introduced himself as John, simple name, simple person. When the handshake ended, John looked around the room that prior to this day, Sherlock had had to himself.  
“I hate to be rude since you were here first, but where am I supposed to sleep?” Sherlock, in turn looked around himself at his room. He realized that there was only his bed, which hosted specimens for his experiments, and the couch which was covered in blankets to sleep on.  
“I’m sure Mrs Hudson is ordering beds for you and your sister this very moment, but I’m sure for now you would be able to sleep on the sofa.” John’s eyes widened a little.  
“Um yeah that works, but how did you know I have a sister?” Sherlock felt a small smirk appear on his face.  
“Well, three reasons. One, I saw her walking into the building with you and Stamford.” He gestured to the windows. “Two, I heard four voices downstairs and if she hadn’t been there, there would have only been three. And three, you have suffered some amount of abuse coming from your… father, yes. And chances are if you were an only child you wouldn’t have tolerated it from him, but since you didn’t want her to get hurt you took the abuse from your father.” John’s eyes were even wider now.  
“That was… wow that was amazing! Well the last part was.” Sherlock made a mental note to try and make John smile more because his whole face lit up if only for a few seconds.  
“Oh, that’s not what people usually say.”  
“Yeah? And what do they usually say?”  
Sherlock looked up from the floor and in a monotone voice said. “Piss off” There was that smile again. Sherlock resolved to stay as stony as possible. “Look, I hate to end this, but I was in the middle of something before you came and it requires my absolute attention.” He turned back towards the desk where his current experiment lay, waiting for examination.  
“Of course, sorry. I’ll just go get my stuff then.” John headed back out of the room and Sherlock felt slightly empty, but he ignored the feeling and went back to studying his toenail clippings. 

A few minutes later John came back with a small duffel bag. Sherlock tried to ignore him, but kept thinking of how warm John’s smile made him feel. The thought that those deep blue eyes shone for what must’ve been the first time in ages just because of something he had said gave Sherlock a small feeling of belonging. He realised he hadn’t been moving for the past ten minutes and quickly got up. 

John had started unpacking his few belongings and moving blankets off of the couch but he now stood in the middle of the room holding a small piece of paper. Sherlock walked over to where he was standing and loomed over John’s shoulder to look at what he was holding. It was an old picture of a young woman who wore a smile just like John’s and her eyes were blue like his. Her hair was brown instead of John’s golden, but she was very clearly his mother. John must have sensed Sherlock looking over his shoulder because he quickly wiped his face and put the picture in his trouser pocket. John stepped away and went back to moving blankets. Sherlock picked one up from the pile on the floor and folded it. He did the same thing with the next one, and the next one, his thoughts occupied by every single action John had made that day. Simple name, not so simple person.


	6. Chapter 5

After John and Sherlock had cleared away the couch, Mrs Hudson called dinner. It was some sort of white fish with corn and peas. Over the food, the five teens introduced themselves to each other. Other than the Watsons and Sherlock, there was a girl and a boy. The girl was slender and mousy, she introduced herself as Molly, and she seemed like the human incarnation of honey. The boy was almost the opposite. He was bulky, but pure muscle and introduced himself as Sebastian. Once they were all done, John and Sherlock went back to their room.

 

John finished unpacking some jumpers and realized he had forgotten about pajamas and a toothbrush. Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen that John had seen earlier, drying plates.

“Hey Mrs Hudson?” 

She jumped slightly, and quickly turned around with a motherly smile on her face. “Yes John? Oh is Sherlock bothering you? I can move you if you want, but you two are almost the same age so I figured-”

“No no, Mrs Hudson, I just realized that I forgot about a toothbrush and stuff.”

“Oh right. I forgot to tell you, tomorrow we’ll go shopping for you and Harry. We’ll get you a few new clothes and some other things too, don’t worry dear.” She was still smiling gently again.

“Thanks Mrs. Hudson.” John, not knowing what else to say, stood awkwardly in the small kitchen.

“You should probably go and rest up. You’ve had a busy day and tomorrow will be too. Oh and make sure to tell Sherlock not to burn anything.” John tried his best not to look worried for his safety as he headed up the stairs again.

 

Stopping by lounge, he checked the time. Only twenty after eight, too early to sleep, but he had nothing to do. Molly was sitting on the couch, reading a book about basic human anatomy. John was about to ask if he was allowed to borrow a book from one of the two bookshelves, when he remembered Mrs Hudson say that the books were fair game or something. So instead of bothering the girl, he walked up to a tall oak bookshelf and scanned the books. Most of them were old textbooks covering a variety of subjects including criminology, he was about to pick one of the few fiction books when one book that wasn’t put away with the spine facing outwards caught is eye. The pages were all bent, and there were little bits of coloured paper bookmarking several pages. John took it off the shelf. **_Psychology: why we are the way we are._** He flipped through a few pages to find that it was written in textbook style with little blurbs of information all over the page. The book seemed interesting enough, so he took it back with him down the hall to his room.

 

Sherlock was hunched over his microscope again, completely engulfed in the darkness save the light from the instrument. John flicked the light switch on and Sherlock flinched a little, then straightened up and crossed his arms.

“Great John, I was in the middle of a delicate process and you scared, me. Where do you expect me to find another cat eye?” A what?

“I dunno, wherever you got that one from. I want to read in here, so either you move somewhere else or deal with the light ok?” Sherlock straightened his back even more.

“Fine.” He then returned to his microscope.

John unfolded two blankets and placed them on the couch along with a pillow Molly had lent him. He decided he wouldn’t be able to sleep in jeans so he pulled them off and got under the afghans and opened the textbook.

 

He told himself to read it from the start, but the little coloured tags kept calling out to him, and despite his best efforts, he found himself flipping to the first one. It was a bright green. The chapter it was under was called:  **_Mood altering illnesses_ ** and the specific page that was marked was about BPD. John read the whole page and processed the information. It must have been someone here because if it came with the markers came in the book, they would have been taken out. But who would mark it?

“Shut up John.” John shook his head slightly.

“I wasn’t even speaking.”

He could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes. “But you were thinking. You think too loud. If you would like me to tell you how I know you were thinking it’s quite simple really.”

“Sounds interesting, but I’m reading so maybe another time.” It really did sounds interesting, but the next marker which was a bright purple caught his attention. The page was under a different chapter bearing the name:  **_Personality_ ** . The specific page that was marked was for schizoid personality disorder. One of the blurbs, which was highlighted in the same bright purple read:

**_“The term schizoid designates a natural tendency to direct attention toward one’s inner life and away from the external world. A person with schizoid PD is detached and aloof and prone to introspection and fantasy. They will have no desire for social or sexual relationships, is indifferent to others and to social norms and conventions, and lacks emotional response.”*_ **

 

Once he finished reading the little bit of information, the lights turned off and Sherlock was talking again.

“One always needs sleep, or at least that’s what Mrs Hudson preaches every day. Lights out are usually at about ten, but for once I’m tired.” 

John opened his mouth in protestation as it was only ten after nine, but Sherlock cut him off.

“You will find that I hardly sleep, so I suggest you let me sleep now.” With that, Sherlock fell silent, and after a few minutes, there were steady breaths coming from his direction. John couldn’t sleep though. He kept trying to find a name for the colour of Sherlock’s eyes. They were blue, and green and violet, and brown all at the same time. They were deep and welcoming, but also cold and calculating. A few rooms down, John heard giggling, and Sebastian didn’t seem like the person who would giggle, so he assumed that Molly and Harry were getting along. John pressed the side of his watch, illuminating a small portion of the room in blue light. It was quarter to ten. He pressed it again and pointed it towards Sherlock who was sound asleep. His eyelids fluttered with his dream, and his lips were parted slightly. God his lips were just amazing. They looked so soft and he had the most perfect cupid’s bow. He had only seen Sherlock smile properly once when he told a joke, but they curved upwards into an adorable smile. John sighed happily to himself. He wasn’t gay. Was he thinking about his roomate? Yes, but Sherlock was an interesting person, that’s all it was. Once he learnt a little more about him, he would simply be Sherlock and not the occupant of John’s thoughts. He wasn’t gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I used this from Psychology today because I'm definitely not an expert on anything about the mind.  
> https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/personality-disorders.
> 
> I would also like to thank my beta em0rion


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found time to write another chapter. This one hasn't passed through my Beta em0rion (thank you) so if any of you see any mistakes that should definitely be changed e-mail me at sherlockfanficitonacc@gmail.com
> 
> I also changed the title of the story to "Ivre sur toi" which means "Drunk on you" (because French is so pretty). 
> 
> Enjoy.

Sherlock had the room to himself. John, Harry, and Mrs Hudson had left to go shopping an hour ago, so considering they had to get two beds, a few more clothes, and some personal hygiene products, they shouldn't be back for another hour and a half. He had plenty of time to work on his latest experiment, the effects of sulfuric acid on hardwood flooring. On his desk he had samples of ash, beech, cherry, elm, iroko, and mahogony. Almost everything was set up and ready to go, but he couldn't find one of his beakers. He looked through the pile of whatever on the end of his bed and found nothing of use. He then shuffled through his half of the chest of drawers, still nothing. He looked anywhere it could possibly be, and still came up empty handed. Only John's things were left.

He looked through the drawers John had been given but the only things he found were a few pairs of jeans and a jumper. John's duffel bag still had a few things in it, so he decided to check there. He had to push two horrid jumpers out of the way to reach the bottom, but there was still no beaker. He did find the slip of paper from earlier though.

John's mother's smile seemed to have the same effect as John's because Sherlock found the corners of his mouth tipping up into a grin. Sherlock remembered his own mother. She had short black hair that fell in curls akin to Sherlock's, but her features were warmer. While both of her sons had odd, opalescent eyes, hers were a deep blue, like the sea. Her skin had always been deathly pale, but warm in a way that only mothers seemed to achieve. When she had divorced his father, she had refused custody of her children, claiming that she had other things she'd rather be doing than looking after teenagers. His father had blamed them and showed them accordingly. The only comfort Sherlock had received during that time was when Mycroft would come home from work to find Sherlock holding back teats. He would always whisper "Remember, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock was disrupted from his memories by one hot tear rolling down his cheek. Firmly, he reminded himself of Mycroft's words and wiped it away, placing the photograph back in the bag and pulling the jumpers over it. He still needed to find his beaker.

For another twenty minutes, he searched for it, but never had any luck. By the time he had turned the room upside down and then right side up again, there was only five minutes until everyone should be home, which was definitely not enough time to complete his experiment. He cursed at the clock as he cleaned up the hardwood samples and plugged up the beaker containing the acid.

With a sigh he flopped onto his bed and stared at the couch, soon to be replaced by John's bed. John. There was something about being near him that gave Sherlock a sense of security and belonging, but he wasn't sure what it was. Sherlock didn't have "friends" and he had never intended to, but his new roommate made him want to make at least one. 

With a nod of his head, he made up his mind while a door opened and closed beneath him, the warm buzz of voices reaching his ears. He got up and unlocked the door before flopping back on his bed. The sound of voices and footsteps became louder as they went up the stairs. Two sets of feet started travelling down the hallway, but after one of the people entered a room, only John's were left, slightly heavier than before. He struggled to open the door, his hands no doubt full, but succeeded before tumbling into the room.

John placed his bags on the ground and looked at Sherlock lying on the bed.  
"Hey."


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found time and motivation to write the new chapter. Sorry it took so long. For most of August, I was in England and then when I got back, I had to move. I hope you all like it!
> 
> Thanks to em0rion for being my Beta.

“Hey.” John chastised himself for sounding slightly too familiar, after all he’d only met this kid yesterday. 

“Oh, hi.” Sherlock was lying on his bed, exactly as John had left him. He set his stuff down and began unpacking it into his side of the chest of drawers. Sherlock stayed on his bed watching as John pulled out his new clothes. John worked in silence for a bit, but soon Sherlock began speaking again.

“I see you were… successful. Did you also get a bed or do you plan to sleep on a couch until you turn eighteen?” 

“I have a bed, it’s just downstairs, in pieces.” Sherlock grunted in response.

 

When John finished, he turned around to find that Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared, just like that. He almost called out, but then heard the shockingly deep voice of his roomate talking to someone just down the hall, probably in the lounge.

 

***

Much later that night, John sat in his new pajamas, on his new bed facing Sherlock and reading the psychology textbook. He was currently on a subsection stating the difference between a psychopath and sociopath. None of it made any sense.

“You want to be a doctor.” Sherlock’s voice broke the silence that they had maintained for the past half hour.

“What makes you say that?” John looked up, but immediately looked back down as he was now the subject of the young genius’s intense gaze. 

“You’re a natural caretaker.”

“What does that mean?” John didn’t look up from his book, but didn’t read from it either.

“You’re an older brother, which automatically makes you protective, and your father was an alcoholic so you probably had to take over the role as “parent”. Thus making you a caretaker.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, it was all true. After a while, their dad had stopped looking after them so John took over and managed the money, cooked, made sure Harry was always happy. He couldn’t have her turning into someone like their father. Instead of confirming these alarmingly accurate assumptions, John just said “Oh.” and returned to the book. Once again, silence fell over the two teens, but a question was itching the back of John’s mind.

 

“You know why I’m here, it’s only fair that I know why you’re here.” John watched surprise cross his roomates face, and then watched as it smoothed over into a bored look.

“Oh come on, please?” Sherlock shook his head.

“Fine, tell me something else, like your age.” This time, Sherlock nodded and put his own book down.

“I turned sixteen last week.” John was slightly shocked, Sherlock looked like he had just turned twenty five instead.

“Cool. I turn seventeen in September.” Sherlock looked bored with this information.

“I know.” Wait what?

“What do you mean you know? How can you “know”?” John was hoping this boy hadn’t found his birth certificate or any sort of private file.

“Well it’s obvious. Mrs Hudson puts kids of similar age together. Before you arrived, Mrs Hudson was talking with a neighbour about possibly putting the new child, you, with Sebastian. Sebastian Moran turns eighteen in a month. If you were turning sixteen this year, there would’ve been no question which room you would be in because I’m sixteen this year. With that knowledge, I deduced were sixteen, turning seventeen.” John’s mind was racing, trying to keep up with Sherlock’s, and failing miserably. 

“How’d you know I wasn’t seventeen already?” To that Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a look that he was starting to classify as  _ Is everyone an idiot?  _

“Well, it’s the beginning of January, and the likelihood of you already having turned seventeen is fairly small.” 

“Oh, well it’s brilliant.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped up from where they had been examining the cover of his ridiculously thick book.

“What did you say?” There was a fire burning in Sherlock’s polychromatic eyes that scared John a little.

“I said, uh, it’s brilliant.” The flames burned a little brighter, forcing John to look away. Had he said the wrong thing? Sherlock didn’t answer, but John could still feel his eyes. Deciding that Sherlock wasn’t going to answer at all, he returned to his book.

 

***

 

“That’s not what people usually say.” Sherlock had just come back from getting changed into his own pajamas and now sat back down on his bed to read, presumably.

“What?” After Sherlock had ended their conversation, neither boy had said anything.

“What you said, that’s not what people usually say.” Had he said something?”

“When did I say something?” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he peeled back his covers.

“Twenty minutes ago, you said “brilliant.” That’s not what people usually say.” 

“Oh, right.” He remembered how amazed he had been by Sherlock’s… whatever that had been. Then his words sunk in a little more. “What do they usually say?” He tried his best to sound casual, but now he really was curious. What had people said to this poor boy to make him recede into his own head at the slightest praise.

“Piss off.” Sherlock smirked and John laughed.

John had the strongest urge to hug him. Which shocked him. But what shocked him even more was when he asked.

“This is off topic and everything, but I was wondering, just so I know if you’ll be sneaking people up here or something. Do you have a girlfriend?” Disgust crossed his roomates pale features.

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.” Oh.

“Ok. Boyfriend then? Which is fine by the-”

“I know it’s fine.”

“So, boyfriend then?” John convinced himself he was just curious, but a small part of him was hoping Sherlock would answer in the negative.

“No. I’m completely detached.” A small fluttering almost hopeful feeling spread beneath John’s skin.

“Alright. Just like me.” Sherlock’s eyes were now scouring him. John licked his lips self consciously. “That’s that I guess.” He made a move to turn off his light, but Sherlock kept speaking.

“Look John, I appreciate the interest, really I do, but I’m completely detached. I’m not interested in romantic entanglement of any kind.” What was that supposed to mean? Oh.

“No. No, I’m not- I’m not asking you out.” He clicked his light off and their shared room was enveloped in darkness. 

Sherlock sighed. “Ok.” Not knowing how to end the awkwardness that crowded the bedroom, John settled in to sleep.

“Goodnight Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t answer. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already said something like this on instagram, but just so you know, read it.

Ok, so basically, I decided to stop working on this fanfic. It started negatively affecting me and I found myself constantly worrying about it, so I decided that I can't keep working on it. I have gifted it Azraella, and will link the new work here once it's been started.


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